Brian Murdoch Let me compare thee to this bag of chips, For you are as desirable. They taste Just slightly salty, like a woman’s lips And steam invitingly, fresh, hot, and chaste. In shape each single chip is uniform And you are also slim, pale, not too long, And nicely firm. Your body is as warm As these. The night is young, I’ll walk along The High Street with your image in my hand, Until we meet at the appointed hour Outside the cinema. We’ll enter, and With chip-fuelled kisses I shall you devour. I need no pickled onions nor brown sauce But you alone, for love to take its course.
Chris O’Carroll When I my rich, ripe love for thee declare, With gasp and wrinkled nose thou dost recoil As from a cheese whose pungency doth spoil The appetite. Yet I am gourmet fare.
I’m Stinking Bishop, Roquefort, Camembert. I’m Époisses de Bourgogne, Pont-l’Évêque. Some nostrils cannot bear the merest speck Of me, but on the tongue, I’m gourmet fare.
Thine outward aspect, like thy heart, is fair, Whereas the world perceives me rank and rude, As if my rind some foul stench did exude. One mouthful, though, will prove me gourmet fare.
Thou think’st thou canst not love me. Au contraire. Yes, I’m a taste it takes time to acquire, But I foresee reciprocal desire. Prepare thy palate for my gourmet fare.
Alan Millard Dearest love, fear not, I’m coming, Hammer-like my heart is drumming, Rapture surges through my plumbing, Pipes engorged with raging sap, Sap which you could be immersed in, Liquid lust within me bursting, Nectar to assuage your thirsting, Come, my sweet, and turn the tap!
Those who’ve chosen to resist me, Unaccountably dismissed me, Might have witnessed, had they kissed me, Passion pouring from my font, Now, no part of me concealing, All my manliness revealing, Take me, and you’ll soon be feeling More than you could ever want.
Bill Greenwell Partners in our crimes of passion, Here we stand before the crowd — Full of pride and self-possession, Bloodied, maybe, not unbowed —
How we two are bound together! How we love our happy knot! Let us praise our perfect tether: Both of us are hot to trot —
Listen to the preacher praying, As we wait, excited, high — Soon we will be swinging, swaying Underneath a bright blue sky —
We’ll have time to gasp, and loudly, Breathing hard, our feet set free — Oh full throttle! We’ll jig proudly, Launched into eternity!
Basil Ransome-Davies You are as lovely as a rose, The fairest of your gender. I yearn to free you from your clothes And fondle your pudenda.
You are my goddess, nonpareil, As Beatrice was Dante’s. I’d be ecstatic to unveil What’s underneath your panties.
In ardent dreams, more sweet than all The perfumes of Arabia, You let your pretty knickers fall; I depilate your labia.
My love for you is strong as steel, As deep as the Atlantic. Can you return the love I feel, Or am I too romantic?
Robert Schechter Come to me, my sweet, romance is there for you inside my pants. I’m master of erotics!
And you will find within my shorts no trace of cankers or of warts. God bless antibiotics!
Max Gutmann Come let me stroke your hair and kiss your lips And hold you till we feel as though we’re one, Undo your skirt and slide it past your hips And lay on top of you until I’m done, And if we like this, you can be my wife — Or, in these gender-equal times, my spouse — To share the fine accoutrements of life: Cars, phone bills, home appliances, and house. We’ll raise our kids and do the best we know, Try not to screw them up or let them lack For anything important. They will grow And leave us without ever looking back. Soon, age will overtake us. None can duck it. And you can nurse me till I kick the bucket. Your next challenge is to supply a new anthem to welcome 2019, starting with the first line of ‘Auld lang syne’ and continuing in your own way for up to a further 15. Please email entries to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 7 December. The early deadline is because of the seasonal production schedule.
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